Her eyes flutter as the hardened steel chains dig into her torn flesh. Overwhelmed by the sudden pain and confusion, she tries to scream for help to no avail--the thick piece of leather wedged in her mouth drowns out everything but the whimpering. Her fists ball as she struggles to escape her her restraints, each clenched fist sending a small stream of blood out from her wrist and down the already crimson soaked steel.

"Save it sweety." Her struggle stops immediately as the sullen voice pierces through the darkened room. Her eyes dart from corner-to-corner, searching for the origin. "Bleedin' too much ain't good for the baby." The voice softens into a whisper as it moves closer, accompanied by the familiar sound of rattling steel chain. She winces and slams her eyes shut as she feels the cold, bony fingers begin to run through her hair. She tries to scream again but leather strap digs into her gums, the taste of her own blood nearly makes her vomit.

"Shhh. Shhh. Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," the whisper is sounds so close now that for a brief moment she questions if its coming from within her own mind. The cold fingers softly begin to caress her uncovered stomach, the icy touch against her skin sends a pulse of fear straight to her spine. "He got what he wanted," the soft voice sounding more distressed. The icy fingers move from her stomach to pull the piece of leather from her mouth. She instinctively attempts to scream but the hand forcefully slams down, covering it. "They'll come eventually, don't give them a reason to do it sooner."

"Fuck off already." Another voice, this one more agitated than scared. "You don't think they want us to be scared? Hell, the more we scream, the more these sick fucks are gonna stroke off to it."

"You don't know that!" The soft voice half-heatedly retaliates. The hand releases its grasp, finally allowing Simone Taylor to let out a scream with all the lung strength she can summon--the roar she anticipated was little more than childish whine. She takes several deep breaths, nearly hyperventilating before she can manage an actual string of words.

"Where the fuck am I!?"

"What? Never been to the Ritz Carlton? Well sleeping beauty we've got mani-pedis scheduled in 20 and that cute bellhop told me about a swanky new bistro around the corner with a saffron risotto to die for."

"You're not helping, as usual. All you ever do is--"

"Hell." A new voice chimes in, momentarily silencing the bickering. "This is Hell."

"Oh joy, little miss sunshine is up from her catnap."

"Wait." Taylor's exhausted voice rings out. "You're them, aren't you?"

"Not quite sure who 'them' is, but we've pieced together the fact that we're from the same neighborhood and all ended up here within a few days of each other, so I'd imagine we got some sort of news coverage. Hopefully they used a good picture."


"Are they looking for us? Oh my God they don't think that we're dead, do they?"

"We are dead. She is too."

"No, we got a tip that you were being held here and we came to find you."

"Hold on, hold on. You're the cavalry? Well ain't that a fine 'how do ya do?'"

"It was...an ambush." Her voice cracks as the memory of her partner Frank laying on the floor hemorrhaging comes flooding back to her. Her brain seemed to be a foggy, jumbled mess when she awoke but suddenly the picture began to make more sense. She had seen him, that sadistic son of bitch whose brains she wanted to tap dance on, and he looked at her with that demented smile of his while she couldn't fight back. She remembered being hoisted by straps, stripped nude, and painted with some kind of symbol...using his own blood. She remembered smoke, and chanting, and then...nothing. Waking up in the dark, in pain, afraid and confused.

"Wait you're a cop? What'd you try to break us out with, whiffle balls bats and positive thoughts? They're just a fuckin' group of tweakers."

"He's not just some junkie. You've seen him. The way he talks, the way he looks at you...this is Hell and he's the devil."

"What does he want?"

"This isn't a movie, honey. We don't know his master plan. I'm sticking with my theory of some strung out voyeurs fondling themselves while they watch us squirm. As a matter of fact..." the sound of liquid splashing against the floor is met by a groan from the soft spoken woman. "How that huh!? You like that? You sick fucks!"

Suddenly the room comes alive, flooded by a dull red light. The women all slink back against the walls, save for the prone Taylor in the center of the room. Her eyes frantically search the room, looking for an escape. Her eyes fixate on a large steel door, the handle slowly beginning to turn. The sound of the opening steel door scraping against the frame is pierces the women's eardrums, they scream in agony and cower on the floor as the smiling face of Deacon Hammu slowly emerges from behind it.

---------------------------
They cower. Why? They are here to do bring something to this world that is so much bigger than themselves. The gifts they have brought will change everything. Forever.
---------------------------

He paces around the room with a seemingly permanent, twisted, smile. His eyes lock with Taylor's and they do not shift as he slowly circles the room. The women sob as he makes pass after pass, not blinking. Not speaking. Not breaking eye contact. He moves slowly and purposefully, each pass around the room draws him slowly closer to the center of the room where Taylor shakes uncontrollably. After what seems like an eternity to her, Deacon finally makes it face-to-face with her. His gaze never breaks, his smile never fades. The minuscule distance between them erases the fear from Taylor and fills her with an even larger rage. She grits her teeth and furls her brow as she pictures sinking her teeth into his throat and ripping it open; a fitting tribute to Frank. She lunges, but her head is quickly snapped back, making up none of the space between them. She lets out a guttural grunt of disappointment and keeps trying, over and over, each time ending no closer to tearing his throat out than the previous. He lifts his head and slowly backs from the room, never once averting his gaze. The door slams shut and the room goes black.



Deacon never stops smiling.

---------------------------
If only they knew.
---------------------------

"A pretty little poison, indeed. Created for show, with no threat of real danger, leave it to the self proclaimed diva to be afraid to get her hands bloody. Vespertine you have wisely wallowed in the shadows where you belong. You know where you belong: away from the bright lights and marquees, wading through filth and garbage not unlike the hole that birthed you."

"You must ask yourself, Vespertine, is this really the life you wish to live? You could be home living out your days as the domestic slave you were meant to be, listening to the pitter-patter of tiny feet as you daydream about being someone whose existence mattered. But instead, you've chosen to play a part you are wholly unprepared for, and you will suffer the consequences."

"Not a soul in this company would take me lightly, so for you to disappear entirely from the XWF is the grandest of white flags, fluttering in the wind. You gave up before you could even get in the door. Do I blame you? Surely not. From the moment you stepped foot into this company you exuded the stench of immediate failure. You were not long for this place, and that your career will come to and end so soon is no surprise."

"I am the antidote to your pretty little poison."